"March and After" brims with pithy song, but it is not merely a collection of poetry. The slim volume cuts with journalistic economy and biographical precision.
Yet, its author, Jon Mitchell, a 12-year resident of Japan and accomplished writer of various genres, purposefully transforms his reporter's pen to capture something more essential to humanity than the day-to-day unfolding of life in the aftermath of the March 11 Tohoku-Pacific earthquake and tsunami. At its heart, "March and After" tells a contradictory tale of apologetic survival and downward redemption — the fragile and soaring possibilities of man.
Mitchell's subjects illuminate humanity in ridiculous triumph shaded with ambiguity: Reiko, the office-lady who slyly shoplifts chocolate and lipstick during the the chaos of 2:46 (time of the quake); "the boss" tasked to clear "twelve cars from a bone dry yard" in the middle of the town's cemetery, who instead miraculously saves a gasping beached eel; the Iwate girl who walks her poodle nonchalantly through the destruction, wrapping her pet's excretion in tissue "as carefully as a slice of wedding cake," while some aid workers explode in disbelieving mirth — "what's one more ounce in this s**t-soaked town?"